Canvas
by NoteEmmy
Summary: Pegasus is blinded by a vision of a woman he can't put a name to, only a feeling.


Painting was often a cruel comfort for someone as lonely as Pegasus. After all the defeat and flack, despite that he was a rather cheerful influence on the Duel Monsters community, he rarely appeared in the public eye. Personable relationships had been strained far past their breaking points. He had to admit to himself where he was comfortable and stay there. That meant unfortunately that his castle or his island, anywhere that was actually devoid of people, that's where he wanted to be. Maybe he was just getting old. People seemed crueler ever time he met with them. How much longer could the eccentric creator smile things off?

Better for his own image that he was marked with distant rather than angry after one occasion that he was sure would find him at some point. Perhaps his problem was that he needed to stop trying to get into contact with Kaiba. That avenue had long since been exhausted. It was a sad reckoning that he tried putting off for as long as possible, but he wasn't an idiot. He knew Kaiba didn't like associating with him. Pegasus knew he had the other, knew that Kaiba couldn't keep from taking his calls when it was a matter of business. But the cold stares and dismissal were grating.

It was after moments like those that he took long days off from any contact at all and resorted to painting. It was painful, though, to surround himself with faces that wouldn't actually talk back. People that he loved at some point in his life that would no longer smile at him any longer. He just couldn't help himself. If he put off painting his wrist would start hurting, his head would ache- all fake concoctions of his mind he was aware, but not ones he could fight off. In the end it seemed like his own psyche would rather him be lonely staring at familiar faces than lonely staring at stone walls.

His wife was often a subject of his favorite paintings a long time ago. After perfecting her beautiful smile on a few rare occasions he'd resigned himself to not try forcefully to paint her any longer. To mar Cyndia's face was a true crime and even he couldn't stand for it. Inspiration for her came rarely the longer he lived out his days in solitude. It was almost as if she stopped visiting him. Her ghost stopped following around. He stopped hearing her around the corner, her beautiful wispy laugh echoing off the high ceilings. It was on a particularly rainy day that he thought he heard something again.

He wasn't entirely certain that it was the rain. The pitter-patter was distinct, inside his walls rather than outside. But what noise could that have been? It was gentle, so heartbreakingly soft that he had to stop everything he was doing just so he could listen to it. No laugh. No smile behind his eyes as he closed them. Only eyes watching him back. His revelation was broke short when he grabbed a blank canvas, set it on his easel, and started setting out his paints.

The rare occasion that he could see a figure like that so prominently made him frantic. Some tins of blue and white splattered to the floor but he didn't stop. As his brush took to the white surface he became frustrated. Every time he closed his eyes it felt like the vision in his mind, waiting for his recognition to life, was drenched in hot, white light that he couldn't see past. It enveloped her. But there was no doubt just yet. Those sparkling blue eyes, pure and caring, were those of the woman he loved. It was because of that that he tried to push past the pain when he reached out in his mind's eye to grab hold a better picture.

What he ended up with was a woman who was everything he loved but painted in such soft, bright hues that he wasn't certain who she was. Worst of all, he was starting to suspect this woman was not his beloved Cyndia. Her hair didn't have the happy bouncy waves of his past lover, but instead draped delicately. She looked weary, this woman, like she'd seen so much in her little life that had chipped at her. And yet the smile he'd painted on her face, though tired looking, felt absolutely right. As if this woman were smiling at him, giving him warmth and satisfaction. That even though he was alone, so too was she. For a long time, it felt like.

Even though the pains hadn't finished drying he felt himself possessed by his sadness, enough to reach up and smear his fingers along the lines. He mixed the colors before reaching to the floor to grab for the white. He mixed it in along her hair, down across her face for a long bang- but he refused to cover her brilliant blue eyes. In the end he stood there, staring at a woman with brilliant white hair, pale demeanor, pink curved lips and shimmering, understanding blue eyes. It was like he'd seen her before. But where? A party?

He felt young looking at her. The pitter-patter filled the room again, the wind from outside rattling the windows so much that he thought he might have heard the flap of wings. An angel? Was she an angel? The bigger question was if he believed in such things any longer. Surely Cyndia was an angel, but this nameless woman?

"What to do with you…" He began pacing his studio, not taking his eyes off her, almost scared that she'd disappear now that he had her on his paper. His tongue clicked against his teeth, the sound pleasing. He came to the easel again, grabbing both sides of the canvas as he leaned up to look at her eyes. The product of his own creation, yet he was sure she'd existed at some point. This was not his own imagination. They reminded him almost of…

Almost like-

"Kaiba?"

How silly. His lips quirked. Kaiba never had kind eyes like that- well… in moments when Mokuba was involved after dire situations. Maybe Kaiba had eyes like that. But they'd never been directed at him. Pegasus would never see Kaiba's eyes like that. But why Kaiba? Surely this woman was such a delicate creature, one that Kaiba would crush underneath his heel. That brute didn't understand what to do with people like that. So why then Kaiba?

Someone important to him? Pegasus was sure he would have known about her if she'd been part of Kaiba's life. Tried as he might to keep Pegasus from knowing things about his life, Kaiba would never be successful. When he wanted something he would get it. And Pegasus was sure he'd never seen this woman before. Why Kaiba?

His hands slid down the canvas with a sigh before he retreated. The woman was lighting up his room, hurting his mind with how bright she was, and yet she had no place. Worse yet, she had no name. It was shameful for a creator not to give his painting at least a title. But he couldn't, he wouldn't, chance that she was indeed real and he just was forgetting something. Like an old lost friend. On the tip of his tongue. The wingbeats started again.

Not an angel.

And Kaiba…

He hefted another exhale before dipping his brush in black ink. Blue Eyes, white aura, wings… A meek looking woman yet with so much strength. Perhaps she was hiding something in those eyes of hers. A protector, without a doubt. It was silly but he almost got the feeling that she belonged to some deep part of Kaiba that he never showed. That look on his face when he held his dearest brother. They were the same in moments like that. Could it be?

He scoffed at the audacity. Kaiba certainly wouldn't know the truth. He wouldn't care for it. And maybe Pegasus realized he was going the slightest bit senile. But if he couldn't name her, he could title her. And maybe because it would provoke him that his almighty was, in truth, someone so beautiful and gentle. His brush came up to the canvas, in quick careful strokes he dubbed her-

**Blue Eyes White Dragon**


End file.
